Pedestal
by SerenNoir
Summary: Pairing: Liebgott/Roe. Who exactly was the hero at the end of the day?


**_ Pedestal_**

**Disclaimer: Do not own HBO's Band of Brothers miniseries, nor do I claim to know the actual persons that served in the 101st.**

* * *

The jeep had barely pulled to a stop at my feet before Wayne "Skinny" Sisk jumped down from the back and stalked towards me.

"They're like fucking children, I swear. That or an old married couple. That's the last damn time I'm coming down the mountain with the both of them. Screw being a third wheel, fucking ridiculous," he ranted, gesturing wildly where Joe Liebgott and Daniel Webster sat in the jeep, arguing loudly with each other. "You deal with the kids, Eugene, I'm going to go find a drink."

I sidestepped him as he continued forward, glancing back once and rolling his eyes at the scene the two men before us were playing out. I couldn't make out what they were fighting about, but I do know that Webster liked to talk with his hands, that much was apparent. I figured I ought to say something before Liebgott had an aneurysm. Getting red in the face that quickly couldn't be too good for the health.

"Hey Joe, c'mere a sec."

Webster sighed heavily in frustration before jumping out of the jeep and stomping off in the opposite direction. Joe appeared next to me and from this distance I was able to hear the sharp sound as he ground his back molars together in an effort to reign in his anger.

"What's all that about?" I questioned, turning my full attention to the other man.

"He got pissed that we were following orders, I don't know, you tell me. What's Webb's problem every time something's been shoved up his ass?" he spat, leaning heavily back against the jeep's hood.

A tired sigh escaped his mouth and I allowed myself to fully look at him. He was frustrated, that much was certain, but there was something else. Something about him that made him the most dangerous man on earth. Like he had just killed a man. It was a fleeting disconcerted feeling before he smiled tiredly and pushed up off the jeep.

"Come on, I could use a drink."

He ended up grabbing three separate bottles of scotch that was stocked up in our outpost, quickly unscrewing the cap off one and taking a deep swig. I shook my head no when he offered the bottle to me.

"That stuff doesn't taste too good, I'll pass."

He smirked at the face I must have been making as he dropped heavily to the marble steps outside the building. "Suit yourself."

I took a seat next to him, not really sure what purpose I had to stick around, but my gut feeling was telling me that he needed company at the moment. He sighed heavily around his bottle, letting out this great gust of wind that could have passed for his soul.

"Home is starting to sound really good right now," he mumbles, taking another hard swig of his scotch. "Hell, I've forgotten what my own bed feels like now. Pretty fucking sorry, if you ask me."

I fold my hands awkwardly over another, not sure what else to do with them. Joe just didn't seem like the man who would appreciate a pat on the back for all the hard work he's done.

"You got a girl back home?"

I start, not realizing he had ended his monologue and was now speaking directly to me. I shake my head slowly, cautious.

"No. I did-- I did meet someone but she...it wouldn't have worked out," I manage to get out, thinking of Renée in that moment.

Joe's quiet for a moment though he's still staring at me in that way he does when you know he's really thinking hard about something that bothers him.

"Your eyes are like Bastogne," he finally mumbles out, taking another deep swig of his bottle.

"Excuse me?"

"Your eyes. They remind me of Bastogne. That blue snow. Your eyes are like that."

I blink a few times, wondering if I heard him right. If he was comparing my eyes to that Hell on earth, then what must that mean about me? Was I cold and unforgivable like that god-forsaken place? It struck me odd that of all places Joe was focused on it was Bastogne. More so, that we had just recently vacated a town that claimed they were oblivious to the horrors of the concentration camp we found in their woods.

"You're the only good thing about this war, I'll tell you that. There's no way I could get up and do what you do and keep on doing it. You're a regular fucking hero for us all; the only beacon of hope we'll be able to count on."

Words are spilling out of Joe's mouth in scotch-scented syllables and he's keeping his eyes intently on the bottle sitting between his feet. "I only said your eyes are like Bastogne because when I remember that place, all I see is you rushing back and forth and helping this guy and then helping that guy. It was almost like you were bulletproof; like nothing could touch you." Another tip of the bottle. "You don't know how many of the men wish to have the courage that you had."

I'm stunned quiet for a moment, not sure of what to say and what's worse, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Receiving compliments had always been hard for me but this was something entirely different. This was a confession coming from a man who felt like he was losing everything, and he was basically saying I was the only stable thing keeping his world on its axis and tilt.

The responsibility of it all came crushing down on me and I exhaled heavily, habitually running a hand through my thick dark hair. "I didn't really do…all of that. I was a rotten coward for mos' of the time we were even there, Joe. Don't think of me something akin to what you're implying. I ain't no hero."

Joe grins sardonically around his scotch. His eyes tell me that he believes what I'm saying is a bunch of fetid bullshit. I don't know anymore. Those eyes have been telling me a lot of things since he pulled up in that jeep. I stand, straightening my fatigues because I really don't know what else to do with my hands.

"So whatdya say, Gene?" He stares intently at his feet, flushing with what I think is embarrassment. The question hangs in the air. What do I say? How about what does that _mean_? He said I was the only good thing about Bastogne which implies that I'm the only thing he liked while he was there….oh. OH.

Now it's my turn to flush at the strange turn this conversation has led. "You l-like.." My throat is too parched to finish the sentence and I lick my lips to try and force the word 'me' out. Joe looks up now, eyes narrowed. Almost angry.

"Roe." He covers up his weaknesses with sternness, it seems.

My mind can't comprehend what he's asking of me and to be frank, it doesn't really want to. It's probable that he doesn't really have feelings for me that surpass friendship and that he's only misplacing these bizarre emotions on me because I'm someone he can count on. Nevertheless, it's too much for my mind to absorb and I walk away.

I can feel his eyes follow me as I leave, and they're like tiny daggers between my shoulder blades. They keep me in step; in retreat. If I dared to turn around, he would no doubt being in the process of masking the hurt I was causing. I didn't want to see it; didn't want to see him fake one more day.

* * *

Later, after the sun sank in a glorious show of orange and pink, I lay on my bed practically twitching from anxiety. I busied myself with the rest of the day with tasks around the camp, checking up on soldiers' injuries. Now left to my own devices, my conscience rears its ugly head and forces me to think about nothing except what happened that afternoon. Did Joe meet up with some of the other guys? My gut tells me otherwise; that he spent the entire rest of the day alone…and probably drinking like a fish.

In the next moment, Joe proves my assumptions correct by banging open my door and stumbling in. He's lit up to fever-pitch, red eyes searching wildly around the room before landing on me. "Th'hell," he slurs," why in fucks sakes are you in here? You should be out boozing it up. C'mon Doc, getchur ass up."

He tries to pull me to my feet but instead ends up pawing at the front of my shirt in the effort to get a good grip on the fabric. "Whatever", he mumbles, giving up on getting me to my feet. His body leans over the bedpost in a haphazard way; any second now he's going to go tumbling head-first into the floor.

"Webb is still angry with me. That little prick doesn't know war, apparently."

"What did you do to warrant such animosity," I question, humoring Joe even though gravity does not deter him from drinking from his bottle. At this rate, if alcohol poisoning doesn't get him, choking on the stuff will.

"Those men…I didn't know how many ribs the human body could have. I counted them all. Skinny said that trip up the mountain wasn't going to "liberate" me. But that fucker had it coming!"

He slides off the bedpost and lands with a groan at the foot of my bed, kneeling on the floor. Miraculously he sets the bottle to the side. "I'm drunk."

"You are," I agree softly.

"I shot a man."

"You did." I don't try to pose it as a question; we both know full well that I knew what happened up on that mountain.

"See, you don't care. You're smarter than everybody else here, Gene." The expression across his face seems to suddenly sober him up, because his face screws up in a twisted frown. "I don't know why I came up here."

"Why didja come up here?" I shouldn't push him. Lord, I shouldn't push him.

Joe raises his head high enough that he's no longer parallel to the mattress. He glances over at his scotch but thinks better of it. Unsteadily he rises to his feet as if to leave, but his damn legs are quaking so bad that he barely gets his footing.

I catch him around the middle before his face makes a grand introduction to the hardwood. He's not light, that's for sure and I stumble a bit, easing him back onto the bed. He makes a tortured sound high in his throat and shoves my hands from him and then pulls all of me _to_ him.

"Damn it all," I hear him mutter, shortly before my lap is full of all elbows and knees and Joe is pushing roughly against me, lips covering mine in a way I didn't think was possible in his inebriated state. I try to keep the stricken response out of my limbs but some leaks through and if he can feel it, he doesn't say anything about it. It's all desperate at first; he's trying to urge a reaction out of me by sheer willpower. I find my hands grazing up his sides, slowly at first, not entirely sure why I'm suddenly moving at all.

He relaxes then and breaks for air, resting his forehead against the swell of my cheek. I stare at the fine slivers of hair directly beneath me and try not to think of how they're tickling my nose, how my heart is stuttering so fast I sincerely worry I might stroke out.

He doesn't move for a very long time. Before I can ask any questions, a soft, labored sigh drifts from his lips and I quickly realize he's fallen asleep. In the only way a man so drunk is able to. I push him gently onto the bed, closest to the window so the cool air can help sober him up.

In the soft light of the room, he doesn't look so much like a dangerous warrior now. More like a kid so far from home he's forgotten where it is. He thinks I'm smart, that I'm a hero, that in the face of danger I _didn't_ shirk my responsibilities. In the morning, he's probably going to regret kissing me, but in the morning I won't be angry.

Right now, my only priority is keeping a vigilant over the boy. If I couldn't be the hero he deserved in Bastogne, he was at least allowed this. And in the morning, when it's daylight and things aren't so bleak, I'll let him know that his courage by simply surviving is worth more than twenty of my entire rounds in Bastogne. And I'll let him know that in this entire mess of the war, he could possibly be the only thing that's right for me, too.


End file.
